


Time

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 05:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18866245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: As soon as Ginny props Teddy up in her lap, Harry feels something bubbling in his stomach, something changing him from the inside out, something akin to Polyjuice Potion... except it’s changing his heart, not his hide.





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> From a Tumblr ask about the first time Harry realizes he wants kids! This also might be my first completely T-rated Hinny story... hmm... 
> 
> Please read and review!

Harry hadn’t really thought about babies before.   
  
He’d abstractly thought they were cute in their own way — little potato blobs that pooped and cried and gradually became more humanlike.  
  
Although Harry doesn’t properly meet Teddy until the war is over (and doesn’t even hold him until mid-May), he automatically knows his godson differs from the nameless, faceless babies he’s seen before. In retrospect, this should have been Harry’s first clue that perhaps part of him — a part that had been asleep for years, or perhaps one that had never truly woken at all — was finally stretching and rising.   
  
But even after all that, Harry reckons he’s a bit thick, because it still takes him until July to make the biggest discovery of all.  
  
Weekend trips to the Tonks house quickly become customary following the war. Andromeda’s a middle-aged woman raising an infant entirely alone; like everyone else in her position, she needs a break from time to time. She’d conveyed early on that weekends are the hardest, as she’s been with the baby for five straight days — and Harry and Ginny are happy to help. They’ve gladly traveled to her home every Saturday afternoon for months, and thus far, every trip has been simple and endearing. They’ve each enjoyed the little slices of domesticity, little glimpses into normal life, little breaks between the mourning ( _and shagging_ ), and grieving ( _and more shagging_ ) and rebuilding ( _so much shagging_ ). 

Right away, though, Harry knows this particular trip will be different. Even from the exterior of the house, Harry can tell that Andromeda is struggling: Weeds have overgrown her normally immaculately maintained garden, her rose bushes are unpruned, and her lawn is longer than Harry’s ever seen it.   
  
Harry vows to return to help her later as they approach the door — and although Harry _feels_ like nothing malicious is to blame for any of these deviations from the norm, he instinctively knows that a relaxing afternoon is not what the universe has in store.   
  
The moment they step over the threshold, this prediction proves correct.  
   
Instead of rushing to greet them with tea and biscuits, an exhausted Andromeda is pacing the foyer, bouncing a pink-haired, fussing Teddy on her shoulder. She gives them a weak smile and offers a half-hearted apology for the mess and her attire and the garden, because Teddy’s teething, and it’s been —  
  
But Harry never finds out how it’s been, because Ginny won’t let her get that far.   
  
Her red hair trails behind her as she swoops in with soothing words and a gentle pat on the arm and a calming reassurance to the older woman that  _it’ll be fine_.   
  
Although she’s nearly thirty years her junior, Ginny’s presence has a calming effect; Harry’s not surprised when Andromeda visibly sags in relief. Harry _is_ surprised, though, when Andromeda walks up to him and nonchalantly plops Teddy into his arms without a single forewarning.  
  
Harry accepts his godson, of course — though he can’t help but look startled while he does it. Maybe one day he’ll get used to this custom of people so cavalierly handing over something so precious. Now, though, he’s mostly worried about the plans Ginny’s committing them to while he’s busy holding the baby; Andromeda swiftly explains that she hasn’t been to the shops in ages — and that she positively _needs_ to get out of the house. Ginny instantaneously volunteers to watch Teddy, but all Harry can do is give her a wide-eyed, horrified look: _How the hell are they meant to function without an actual adult?_  
  
It’s no matter, though, because they clearly don’t have a choice.   
  
The older woman is ready to leave in a flash — and Harry now realizes (because, again, he’s quite thick) that she’d merely been waiting for them to arrive. Andromeda wraps Ginny in a warm embrace, and Harry shoots his girlfriend a weary look from over her shoulder ( _Are you sure about this?_ ). Ginny arches an eyebrow in challenge ( _No, but we’re doing it anyway_ ) before pulling away from the hug with another calming pat. 

Then Andromeda offers them a parting wave, turns on the spot, and disappears into thin air.

And with that, Harry and Ginny are off on their first babysitting adventure.

Just the three of them.

 _Right_.

Teddy cuts through the blanketed silence with a little gurgle. Harry glances down just as the baby’s face wrinkles and strains. Harry cautiously leans back, preparing for the explosion that usually accompanies that expression… but instead of expelling something from either end, Teddy lets out a little grunt — and then he shifts, right before Harry’s eyes. 

 _Oh._ Harry swallows. He’s never seen him do it, not like this… but now the baby’s hair is shifting from pink to black, his eyes from brown to bright green… 

_Merlin…_

Ginny giggles and sidles up next to them, oblivious to the war waging in Harry’s chest. “Andromeda said he was getting better at this,” she notes, tracing a finger down Teddy’s cherubic little face. “Transforming.” Then she pauses, biting her lip. “Can I—?” 

Harry clears his throat and passes Teddy into her open hands. He moves mechanically, as if he’s coming out of a trance — but even seeing a baby who looks exactly like him probably wouldn’t have amounted to much… 

If only Ginny hadn’t taken things one step further. 

But fortunately (or unfortunately, Harry really can’t decide), _she does_. 

The second Teddy’s in Ginny’s arms, the baby’s whimpers turn to gentle sighs. She makes _shhing_ sounds and brings him to her chest as she cradles his head on her shoulder. A soft smile graces her lips before she sinks onto the sofa, and Harry numbly takes the cue to join them. 

After that, it all happens very quickly. 

As soon as Ginny props Teddy up in her lap, Harry feels like something bubbling in his stomach, something changing him from the inside out, something akin to Polyjuice Potion... except it’s changing his heart, not his hide. 

 _Holy mother of God._  

Harry’s breath freezes in his throat as black-haired Teddy raises a chubby fist. Ginny swoops in to kiss it, tucking a piece of long red hair out of his reach and adjusting him in her lap. She gives Harry a soft smile from over her shoulder; he manages to a summon a weak one in return, even though it feels like he’s been socked in the gut. 

Because at nearly 18, Harry’s just realized something that would get him into a great deal of trouble if he were to voice it aloud. It’s something he’s confident most teenagers don’t think about much. It’s something that life has never allowed to consider — or plan for. Even once. 

Because Harry Potter’s now certain — beyond any doubt — that he eventually wants a baby. 

With her. 

_Fuck._

He swallows and runs a shaking hand through his hair as Ginny positions Teddy so he’s seated upright. The baby’s green eyes dance with mirth as Ginny coos some vaguely pleasant nonsense, the tips of her red hair brushing her shoulders as she does. 

 _Oh,_ Harry thinks numbly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. _Now they’re playing a game._

Ginny holds Teddy under his arms, leaning in closer and closer to his gummy grin until — at the last second — she makes a chomping sound and kisses him on the nose. Because Teddy’s a baby, he’s surprised every single time; he emits more peals of mirth with every single pass... but after the fifth consecutive time, it’s too much. 

It’s too, _too_ much. 

Everything that Harry’s spent 7 years denying comes crawling up his throat at the same time. He’s lightheaded and claustrophobic and sick and warm and terrified and thrilled… and he jumps up from the couch and darts to the corridor, muttering something about the toilet as he goes. 

Ginny’s confused, _“Wha-?”_ is cut off as he enters the loo and slams the door behind him, all semblance of manners forgotten. 

Once inside, Harry lurches to the sink, hoping his unsteady legs won’t buckle beneath him on the way. He grips the cool porcelain, slamming his eyes shut, and after several pained seconds, Harry dares to look up at himself in the mirror. He draws deep breaths and wills them to give him some modicum of comfort… and all the while, he tries very hard to pretend that Ginny hadn’t been a vision of femininity and motherhood and perfection and love. That she hadn’t represented every single thing he’s ever wanted. 

While holding a baby.  

 _Who looks exactly like him._  

Before he can help it, Harry's imagination explodes — absolutely explodes. Harry’s already known he wants to marry her; that’s a foregone conclusion, albeit one that’s also abstract and terrifying. For some reason, he’s never factored kids into the mix, too… but suddenly, that’s all he can see. 

Harry sees Ginny, all glowing and beautiful and pregnant, her bright red hair illuminated by a sunset. He'd smile and caress her stomach, kiss her laughing mouth, massage her back, tell her he loves her. Then his imagination shifts; Ginny’s snuggling a black-haired baby (one who _can’t_ shift the color of his hair) as their little family rests atop a worn blanket. Now Harry sees the baby toddling on unsteady feet, his tongue sticking out in determination as Ginny kneels and cheers him into her arms. Oh, and then there’s a green-eyed, red-haired little girl offering him a flower she’s plucked from the garden. Or maybe multiple little girls. Or boys. Harry’s not fussy, not about any of it. He sees hectic trips to Diagon Alley and enormous family dinners and absolute, unadulterated chaos. 

And he loves every second of it. 

Harry swallows, looking away, and a shiver races up his spine. 

 _Fucking hell_ … what has he done? 

* * *

 

Ginny demands answers the second they reach the path to the Burrow. He’d figured she would; he’s just not sure how to explain this, though, without scaring the shit out of her. 

_Right._

Harry draws a deep breath and turns on the spot, preparing to give a reasonable explanation — but Ginny greets him with the same warm, curious look he’d seen in one of his bizarre domestic daydreams. Any thought of handling this well evaporates as quickly as it had arrived. 

Harry blinks at her a few times, opens his mouth — and then blurts everything out with all the elegance of an oiled gazelle stumbling up a set of stairs. His words run together as a single, unpunctuated entity, and by the time he’s done, he’s impressed Ginny hasn’t run for the hills. 

“You were holding Teddy and he looked like me and I didn’t know what to do with that because I’ve never thought I had a future before but now I think — no, _I know_ — that I want kids one day. In future. _Butonlywithyou_. Specifically.” 

Harry groans and turns away, running a hand down his face.

Well, _that_ couldn’t have gone worse.

For several pained seconds, he stares at his trainers and tries to negotiate the fact that he's likely left her completely terrified… but just as it seems all hope is lost, Ginny's words rip him from his mortified reverie. 

“Okay,” Ginny starts. To Harry's surprise, he gets the distinct impression she’s caught between amusement and sympathy. “So, to clarify, you saw me with Teddy. And realized that you might want kids. Eventually. _One day_. And this is… a huge problem?” 

He glances up to see a smirk twitching the corners of her lips; he slumps over in relief, but she’s made her point. It does seem a bit stupid, when she puts it like that. 

Harry spreads his palms and attempts to explain. “I just… I never let myself think beyond Tom, yeah? And now that I _have_ thought beyond him, it kind of just... hit me all at once.” He trails off and looks away with a sigh as pathetic as he feels, but Ginny knows exactly what he needs. Her little palms slips into his; her touch is soothing and perfect, just as it had been with Andromeda. 

“Well,” she says slowly, staring at their joined hands. Is he just imagining it, or are her cheeks turning pink? “You happen to be in luck, Harry Potter. Because I might eventually — one day, _not now_ — want kids. With you.”

_Oh._

Harry grins and wonders if she can hear the weight lifting off his shoulders. “Yeah?”

Ginny swallows through a curt nod — but that’s her last attempt at sincerity before she starts bantering again. Harry doesn’t care, though; how could he care, when he's _this_ happy? 

“But I want to emphasize,” Ginny begins again, her tone mock-serious, “that these are to be very _specific_ children. Because I’ll be honest, the concept of kids in general?” She shrugs, making a face. “Never really done it for me. So I’ll either raise them with you or get loads of cats, I reckon.” 

Harry laughs and leans in for a kiss; he has to get closer to her. Ginny relaxes into him, drawing him against her body — and when she pulls away a few moments later, a sparkle of mischief glints in her eye. “Well,” she sighs, draping her arms around his neck. “I reckon a funeral is in order.” 

He arches an eyebrow as his palms come to rest on her waist. “A funeral?” he ventures, torn between confusion and delight. It wasn’t too long ago that funerals were something dreadful and never-ending and painful, just another piece of the puzzle in dismantling Tom once and for all. 

But the smirk twitching the corner of Ginny’s lip tells Harry she’s _not_ thinking about anything dreadful or painful or never-ending. She’s happy... like him. 

Instead, Ginny fixes him with a flat stare. “Here lie Harry’s swimmers,” she says stoically, “stuck in the shallow end for the foreseeable future.”   
  
Harry snorts before he catches himself. Usually he’s better at this, at expecting her next line and preparing something in return. This time, though, she’s caught him off guard.  
  
It’s not until Ginny clears her throat that he realizes she’s actually expecting an answer.  
  
“ _Erm_. How long will they be in purgatory, do you reckon?” she asks, her brown eyes wide and seeking — and Harry recognizes the tone of voice she uses to sound more nonchalant than she feels. 

Harry shrugs and turns to walk up the path. Truthfully, he’d be ready whenever... but they've got plans. They've _both_ got plans. Ginny slips her hand in his again, and when he responds, he tries very hard to pretend that they aren’t hedging around a topic with more gravity than anything they’ve discussed before. 

“Well,” he says fairly. “We’re each  _really_  interested in getting into the other’s trousers. And as a totally unrelated aside, you’re _much_ better at brewing potions.”

Ginny gives a dark chuckle, but he can tell she caught his drift; one look at Teddy solidifies that babies don't always happen on purpose. “Yeah,” she agrees, “but _you’re_ much better at charms. Let’s just hope our redundancy is idiot-proof.” 

Harry laughs as they finally approach the gate to the Burrow, holding it open for her as he does. But then Ginny just pauses, a weird expression on her face. 

“I guess,” she half-laughs, as if the thought is only just occurring to her, “we… actually have time to talk about this now. Don’t we?”

Ginny gives him a hopeful smile as her cheeks turn pink again, and when she bites her lip, Harry feels a near magnetic compulsion to kiss her.

_So he does._

She responds eagerly, melting against him as her hands clasp around his neck. And in truth, they probably would have been content to deepen the snog with wandering hands and lilting whispers — but then Harry remembers the door not ten meters away. And the fact that it’s broad daylight.   
  
He finally sighs and pulls back, although he keeps her body pressed to his. Harry needs to feel her, now more than ever, even if they can't be nearly as close as they'd like. Matching grins stretch across their faces as his eyes penetrate hers, as his hand comes up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.   
  
_Yeah_ , he thinks, cupping her jaw. _We have time._


	2. Time Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a follow-up Tumblr ask about Ginny telling someone that Harry wants kids.

Ginny and Hermione have been sitting in awkward silence for… Hermione checks her watch… approximately three minutes.

And honestly, Hermione’s at a total loss.

She heaves a sigh and stares at her friend from across the kitchen table at the Burrow. Ginny’s face is nearly as red as her hair, her eyes trained on the wood grain. Ginny’s always been the one who navigates social graces, who makes emotional inferences, who leads conversations.

But now? Hermione bites her lip. Ginny’s much more reminiscent of the girl who’d put her elbow in the butter dish than of the woman who’d spent a year leading an underground rebellion against a blood supremacist.

As such, Hermione’s only inkling as to the source of Ginny’s dilemma is that it somehow involves Harry.

So as weird and uncomfortable as it is to wait, Hermione also knows that Ginny will come around.  _In time._  Ginny’s picked a good opportunity to have this conversation; Harry and Ron are both at Andromeda’s, taking care of some yard work that Andromeda has left unattended since Teddy’s started teething.

Hermione doesn’t envy that — _any_ part of that. She thinks Teddy’s adorable, of course… but he’s also an enormous, life-changing responsibility. The thought of dealing with one of  _those_  at 18 years old is something that makes Hermione grateful she’s been well-versed in contraception since she’d entered puberty. She shudders and takes a draw from the steaming mug in front of her, thankful she won’t have to deal with  _that_  for eons and eons.

Now that Hermione’s thinking about how smart it was to be prepared (and to have those early conversations with her boyfriend), she can’t think about anything else — and before she’s realized it, she’s spent several long minutes lingering in a fog of her own smugness.

But then, with all the emotional intuition of an _actual_ little sister, Ginny blurts out three words… and in doing so, she both reads Hermione’s mind. And scares her to death.

“Harry wants babies.”

…what the  _effing_ …

Hermione chokes and sputters, trying not to spray hot tea across the table. And she’s not quiet about it. She coughs and clears her throat as she stumbles to get a towel to mop up the mess, but all the while Ginny remains in her seat, staring almost catatonically at the table in front of her.

“ _Merlin_!” Hermione exclaims, returning to her chair. She gives Ginny a frustrated sigh. “Please don’t tell me something like that right as I’m  _drink_ —”

“With me,” Ginny adds, her voice small.

_Oh_.

Hermione observes Ginny’s flushed complexion, her wide-eyed disbelief… and that’s when she realizes how much it’s taken for that to have been shared. If Ginny (of all people) has disregarded conversational norms and forgotten to apologize and focused only on herself, she must be going through something significant. Hermione stiffens and suppresses a grimace; she just hopes she isn’t going through  _it_  — isn’t going through  _that_  — at this very moment…

There’s a pause, and Hermione’s hand cautiously inches towards her mug again. She’s about to raise it to her mouth when Ginny makes eye contact with her from across the table — and then, just as quickly, Hermione scurries to put the mug back down, bracing her palms on the wood.

_“He wants me to have his babies,”_  Ginny whispers, oblivious.

Hermione tamps down the urge to reassure her that  _yeah_ , she’d gotten that the first time ‘round — and she’s immediately glad for her newfound sense of impulse control. It’s clear that (apparently) this is something Ginny hasn’t quite come to terms with.

As soon as the words leave Ginny’s mouth, her brown eyes turn skyward as she lets out a slow breath through her parted lips. Hermione recognizes that look better than anyone: She’s trying to keep herself under control.

It’s the look of someone who is really,  _truly_  happy…

Hermione gulps and looks away, overcome with the same unrelenting barrage of emotions she’s felt since the second of May. She thinks about the first night she’d spent next to Ron. Or the first time he’d confessed he’d loved her. Or the first time  _they’d_  — She clears her throat and blushes, grateful that Ginny’s too consumed right now to put her keen observational skills to use.

When Hermione lifts her head to look across the table several moments later, it’s clear that Ginny’s had some sort of epiphany in the time she’s spent fantasizing about her brother. Hermione only feels marginally guilty about this, though, seeing as how she and Ron are properly together now. She sniffs, sitting up straighter; she has the  _right_  to fantasize about her own boyfriend, doesn’t she?

Fortunately, though, Ginny’s still beaming from ear-to-ear, her expression joyous and vacant — and Hermione reckons that she and Ron could have been shagging on the table and Ginny still wouldn’t have noticed. Then Hermione’s face turns even redder, because she and Ron  _have done_ , actually, but now all she can see is Harry and Ginny doing it here too, and is it just her or does the table suddenly seem… sticky?

Hermione’s hands fly to her lap.  _Nope_. Not going there. Ignorance is bliss. Time to think about something —  _anything_  — else.

“I erm… I didn’t really know you wanted children,” she offers, hoping that’s enough of a distraction.

Ginny sighs, gripping her mug. “In general, I don’t.” She takes a sip. “I haven’t  _ever_ , not with anyone else. But when I think about  _Harry_  and him being a dad and…” She sets her mug down, that same bashful smile on her lips.

“It’s different,” Ginny finishes after a pause. “It’s… a lot different.”

Hermione smiles back, her cheeks flushing — because that, too, is something she understands. She’d never once thought about having children with Viktor. Or McClaggen. Or any of the boys with whom she might have shared a passing fancy. But she thinks about  _Ron_  cooing over a frizzy ginger-haired baby (or perhaps a child with no biological connection to them at all, so long as they raise it together), something shifts in her stomach, too.

Now Hermione’s eyes feel rather misty, so she’s thankful Ginny chooses that precise moment to start speaking again.

“I just… I never  _thought_  I’d—”

“—Be this happy?” Hermione supplies — and she finally,  _finally_  deems it safe enough to attempt another sip… but avoids touching the table as she does.

Ginny shakes her head and bites her lip. “More like…” She traces her finger along the edge of the table. “ _More like_ … I never thought I’d actually be with him. In every way I want to be. Even if I don’t want kids anytime soon — not for years and years, not until I’m done playing quidditch and Harry’s established at the Ministry and…”

Ginny shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but Hermione fills in the blanks; she often feels the same way… like she’s afraid to be hopeful. Like she’s afraid some dark force will rip away everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Hermione’s feels an unexpected sense of regret that she’s not close enough to give her friend a reassuring hug.

But  _then_  Hermione remembers that Ginny is the one who provides comfort like that… and she’s not sure what to do with that, either. Rather dwelling on those competing feelings, she instead opts for an abrupt subject change.

“So,” Hermione ventures, clearing her throat; she has to be sure. “You’re  _definitely_  not—?”

“NO!” Ginny cuts her off, her eyes wide in terror.

They heave mutual sighs of relief, and Hermione pats herself on the back for the rather extensive (albeit detached and mechanical) discussion she’d forced everyone to sit through earlier this summer.

Then there’s another pause — and Hermione knows she and Ginny are having the same thoughts… because this discussion has broached a new level of familiarity. Sex is something new, something the two of them have talked about little, aside from the mutual-but-awkward understanding that it’s happening. They’d each confessed to as much after she and Ron and returned from Australia, and that conversation with Ginny had been Hermione’s first real foray into dueling feelings of disgust (because  _bleh_ ) and happiness (because  _aw_ ).

But there’s one final piece of the puzzle Hermione is dying to know — if for no other reason than to judge the quality of Harry’s people skills. And to assess why Ginny hadn’t turned on the spot and run away.

Hermione clears her throat. “So… how did he tell you?”

Ginny gives a distant smile to the far wall. “Teddy transformed to look like him,” she admits. “And then Harry got all weird and ran to the loo, so I asked him, later… and I  _think_  I played it off, but Merlin, give a girl some bloody warning!” She rolls her eyes and sighs again, but if she’s  _actually_  trying to look exasperated, she isn’t doing it well.

Hermione snorts. Ginny’s rather thick for someone so perceptive. Any fool could’ve told you how much Harry loves Teddy; it’s only logical to assume he’d want his own, one day.

“So… I reckon  _you’d_  already gathered Harry wants kids. With me.” Ginny’s cheeks turn pink as she averts her eyes, clearly embarrassed to be the oblivious one, for once.

Hermione gives her a kind nod. She’d thought that much was obvious, but Ginny’s always had a particular weak spot where Harry’s concerned. Of course, the notion that she, herself, has a similar blind spot for Ron isn’t something she wants to consider much. Not when she feels she’s made such growth in perceptiveness.

_So she doesn’t._

“Well,” Hermione sniffs, rising to take her mug to the sink. “I suppose I’ll be very happy for the two of you.  _One day._  And,” she adds, raising a finger in forewarning, “I don’t reckon this celebration will need to occur anytime soon, provided you and Harry continue to make safe choices.”

With that, Hermione turns to leave the kitchen, a smug look on her face — and in retrospect, this, right here is her fatal flaw. On top of everything else, she has the nerve to congratulate herself on how well she’s handled that… on how she’s actually quite astute, after all…

Hermione reckons her condescending smile it really what turns the tide; the second Ginny catches sight of that, it’s all over.

It’s so,  _so_  over.

Because as Hermione steps into the living room, she hears something that freezes her in her tracks.

“Yes,” Ginny agrees, her tone dripping with false innocence, “because I reckon  _no one_  could make a safer choice than shagging my brother. On the kitchen table.”

There’s a beat… and a split-second later, Ginny erupts into cackles.

Oh for the  _love_  of—

Hermione’s back stiffens as she flushes crimson from the roots of her hair down to her toes, more mortified than she’s been in her entire life. And all the while, Ginny howls and howls from behind her, making absolutely no attempt to disguise her delight.

Hermione summons the remaining shards of her dignity and takes a tentative step towards the stairs, but Ginny has nonetheless made her point.

_Safety_ , it seems, is a very subjective word.


End file.
